"He will." I try to sound certain. "He wants to see me. He'll follow the rules."
Andrei doesn't respond.
The silence stretches. I watch the buildings get older, more industrial as we drive. We're heading into a part of the city Idon't recognize. Somewhere far from the polished glass towers of my normal life. "If anything feels wrong," Andrei says quietly, "you get behind me immediately. Don't think. Don't hesitate. Just move."
"Nothing's going to go wrong."
"Liesl." He finally looks at me, and his eyes are hard and cold. "Promise me."
I bite my lip and nod. "I promise."
He nods once and turns back to the window. My chest tightens. I don’t want to think about these things. I don’t want to be a person who walks into a meeting with my father believing that it’s going to go wrong—that he would do anything to harm me or lessen his chances of getting me back. It’s as if a shadow has been cast over the sunshine that has filled my whole life, and I hate it.
The car slows. We're pulling into a large parking lot surrounded by empty warehouses. There’s broken windows and graffiti on the walls. The kind of place where bad things happen and no one hears you scream.
My stomach clenches.
"There." The driver points to a black sedan parked near the entrance to one of the buildings. My father's car.
"Stay in the vehicle until I clear the area," Andrei orders. He's already moving, gun drawn, eyes scanning every shadow and corner as he slips from the car.
His men fan out, checking sight lines and entry points. I watch through the window as my father's car door opens.
Alexander Baumann steps out, and my breath catches. He looks…
Fine.
He doesn’t look like he’s lost sleep, or like anything about his life has changed. His suit is impeccable, his facial hair neatly groomed, his hair styled. The only sign that he might be feelingany distress at all is the way his mouth is pressed in a thin line, his jaw a little tight as he scans the area.
He doesn’t look like a man losing sleep over his kidnapped daughter. He doesn’t look like a man who’s lost anything at all.
My heart clenches in my chest. I want to jump out of the car and go to him, demand to know why he doesn’t look more concerned, and throw my arms around him all at once. But I stay put, remembering Andrei’s instructions. If I disobey him now, he’ll never trust my opinions or ideas again.
I’m not sure why that matters to me at all, aside from the possibility of getting out of his clutches. But I don’t have time to think about that right now.
Andrei approaches him. They're too far away for me to hear what they're saying, but I can see the tension in both their postures. My father's bodyguard has his hand near his weapon.
Then Andrei turns and gestures to the car. The driver opens my door.
I step out into the cold air, and my father's face brightens the moment he sees me. A smile spreads across his lips, and I feel a wash of relief.
He does miss me. He did want me back. His appearance is just because he didn’t want to meet his daughter’s captor looking like Andrei had him on the back foot. It was just that… appearances.
“Liesl.” I can hear the relief in his voice, and I smile back. I start walking toward him.
That's when the world explodes.
Gunfire erupts from everywhere at once—the warehouse windows, the rooftops, behind parked cars. Someone screams.
Andrei is moving before I can process what's happening. He's on me in two strides, his body slamming into mine, taking me down to the ground behind the car. The impact knocks the air from my lungs. "Stay down!" he roars.
There’s more gunfire—so much gunfire. The sound is deafening, overwhelming. I hear glass shattering, metal pinging, men shouting in Russian. A body hits the ground near me. One of Andrei's men. His eyes are open but empty.
Dead.
I can't breathe. I can't do anything except press myself against the cold pavement while Andrei's body shields mine and bullets tear through the air above us. "The car!" Andrei shouts to someone. "Get to the fucking car!"
He's firing back now. I can feel the recoil of his gun through his body pressed against mine. I can smell gunpowder and blood, the air suddenly hazy and thick with it. Someone grabs my arm—Andrei, hauling me up, keeping himself between me and the shooters. We're running—stumbling—toward his car. His men are firing, providing cover, but there are so many shooters. So many angles of attack.
